Dangling silicone tubes take on the impression of veins. Hanging membranous fabric mimics skin, accumulating as time goes on. Pink liquid is pumped around the installation. Mire Lee (b. 1988) is an artist who does not shy away from the grotesque. Her new commission in Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall reimagines the space as the inside of the body, transforming it into an eerie and fantastical factory. The work follows in the tradition of Lee’s work, which is known for engaging the senses in a visceral way, often challenging conventions of aesthetics and desire. We spoke to Lee about how she approached the commission, how she produces her work and what’s next for one of the art scene’s most exciting talents.
A: Could you tell me a little bit about being offered the commission of the turbine hall. How did you feel when that offer came your way? Did you look back at the other artists that had done it before?
ML: When I go the letter, I just looked at it in shock – it was such an unbelievable moment in my career. I did look up previous commissions because I felt like it was important to understand what came before and how the space has been used in the past. I was very excited then I quickly just jumped into making the work.
A: The work takes inspiration from the building itself and its history as a power station. How did the space influence the way you thought about designing the installation and how it ended up?
ML: My first impulse, of course, is that I wanted to fill the space. It’s such an overwhelming and very powerful space itself. I wanted to make the work that can entirely fill that space, but also sort of disappears into the space. The very first thing I wanted to do is to achieve both of those things.
A: It addresses these ideas of regeneration and decay. What compels you to explore these topics?
ML: I have always had some kind of obsession with the idea of dying right from when I discovered the concept of death as a child. It was something I thought about a lot. It gradually became something to do with human fate, because mortality is one thing that all of us face together. So, with this commission, I was interested in continuing these ideas of collectiveness.
A: You mentioned that this fascination with death and provoking the viewers and the visitors to think about these topics. Is it an important thing for you to address topics that perhaps are a bit of a taboo or that people generally in day-to-day life try to avoid?
ML: I don’t orchestrate what my work is going to do for people, so it is not in my conscious intention to provoke. In a broader sense with capitalism and neoliberalism, I think negativity itself renders as a taboo, which is very interesting because negativity is as important as positivity in like human lives. It’s not nice, but it does inspire us, and it does construct our lives in a very significant way. But it’s never my conscious decision to be transgressive.
A: Going to see your work is a very immersive experience. How do you keep the reaction of viewers separate from your creation process?
ML: I wouldn’t say that it’s intentional. I guess it’s more like I don’t dare to think that I, as a person, move people in some direction. I’m hoping the work does that. I like to imagine that art is larger than the artist. So, for this reason, I try to keep it really open and not be so structured. I’m hoping that the work can do even more than what I originally wanted it to do.
A: The title of the show is Open Wound, could you tell us a bit about why you chose to use this name?
ML: It’s a metaphor for an artist’s wound – that you want to change the world with your art, but you cannot. The focus is not about the incapability of changing the world, but more that the wound stays open and never closes. It doesn’t stop hurting. I think it’s a really moving concept when we think of this beyond the art world and think about how people can live choose to live with pain or suffering rather than forgetting it, or rather not have the wound at all. For me, it’s about the human capacity for compassion.
A: Why is sculpture in particular for you the most effective way to do that and to express those feelings?
ML: Sculptures is a medium that’s so hard to alter, so naturally makes you work a lot. You put a lot of labors into it. And then if you want to change something, it takes ages. Sculpture naturally draws the artist to have a very physical, intimate relationship to their work process. In my work, as the scale of the project grew I get to work with other people like fabricators and installers so there’s this feeling of collective labour to make a show like this happen. It’s something I’m really attached to and I could never replicate with other mediums.
A: How does technology and engineering and the logistics of that shape the way that you create your work?
ML: There have been a lot of changes. When I first started, I did everything on my own or with help from friends. Everything was breaking down all the time. I like to try and make my work exist in the space between working and collapse. In the early days, it was really hard to fine tune that. It would just like immediately like destroy rather than gradually degrading. Eventually I start working with like engineers and for this project, with a big fabricating company, which was really new for me. I also work with robot designer in Korea, it’s very inspiring for me.
A: You talk about that process of it changing across time and with this commission. And it will change as the number of hanging skins will increase and given the idea of shedding over time. Can you talk me through the process of why you chose to do that?
ML: It was actually my curator Arvin’s idea to introduce sort of durational element. For those who’ve seen my work over previous years, the maintenance of something as large as that fabrication can be very difficult so it felt like a very liberating suggestion to bring that to the front and allow it to naturally shift and change.
A: I’ve seen your work compared to lots of different artists including Eva Hess and Rebecca Hall, but then also to other creatives outside of the art world like Cronenberg. Where do you draw your inspiration from? Is it artists? Is it filmmakers? Is it a wider pool than that?
ML: Both of the names mentioned there are artists I really admire. I also take my inspiration from all over the world like subcultures, comics, non-culture like pornography. It’s an amalgamation from everywhere really.
A: Have you thought at all about what comes next? What we can be looking forward to?
ML: Oh, I don’t know. It’s too soon to think about it. I kind of like don’t want to leave this project because I really loved working on this project. I feel like I’m not ready to think about other projects.
—Emma Jacob
